


Lead and Follow

by ShinySherlock ficlets (ShinySherlock)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancer!Sherlock, Dancing, Established Relationship, Jollock - Freeform, Multi, Polyamory, Triad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock%20ficlets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t give her one second to think. His hands take hold of her and before she can take a full breath they’re in the sitting room–dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead and Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Heard [this song](https://youtu.be/ek1f0Sb7v70) on the radio and this scene popped into my head. This could fit in to my "Rarely Pure and Never Simple" universe, but you don't need to have read that to read this. :)

It’s been a few months since she moved in, and they’ve settled into some sort of routine. Molly cooks, John helps with the cleaning up, and Sherlock agrees to sit with them and eat. She and John sleep in the same bed, but more and more often Sherlock finds his way upstairs and in the morning one or both of them make a game of kissing her awake, the cat glaring at all of them disapprovingly.

Molly has no interest in going on cases, preferring to remain the consulting pathologist, the attentive audience when they come back breathless and full of stories. She likes to listen, and soothe, and cook. And she likes to dance.

She’s an all right dancer. Even took a few classes. She’s not fabulous at it, but she doesn’t care, and she turns the radio up when she and John do the dishes.

John’s a terrible dancer, much worse than she is, but it doesn’t matter, and she loves how he sways along with her, somewhat clumsy but completely willing because he likes it and he knows it pleases her. Sometimes they slow dance, and what he lacks in dancing skills he more than makes up for in the way his arms enclose her, the way his heat invades her and makes her shivery with want.

Tonight she bops around the kitchen, drying dishes and putting them away as John washes them. She sings along to the bits she remembers and la-la-las the rest.

Sherlock is sat at the desk. He can see them, has witnessed this routine time and again, never participates. His eyes appear glued to the laptop screen and Molly thinks nothing of it.

The next song begins and it grabs her, her hips moving to the beat. John notices and tries to give her a little spin, but his hands are wet and she slips out of his grip and they both laugh as she twirls away–and comes to an abrupt halt in front of Sherlock, who is suddenly stood right there in front of her.

He doesn’t give her one second to think. His hands take hold of her and before she can take a full breath they’re in the sitting room–dancing. The music is loud enough to drown out thought, and Sherlock knows what he’s doing. Placing his hands on her hips, he guides her decisively, showing her how to move, and she’s so dazzled she simply obeys, her movements mirroring his, her body heeding his cues.

They sway together, bodies separated only by inches, sinuous and liquid through the sultry second verse. Molly can’t stop her gaze from roaming over him, hips to chest to long, pale neck, and when she reaches his eyes she is unsurprised to find him staring in return. Unsurprised–but not unaffected. The chorus comes, and he slides his hands around to grasp her pajama-clad arse in his hands, lowering himself a little to press himself against her, thrusting their hips together in unison with the beat and Molly feels like molten steel, like a goddess, like a spirit made of heat and rhythm.

He seems to know the song instinctively, spinning her away as the bridge begins, and she laments the loss of heat, but then she’s flying. They twirl together around the room in waves, Sherlock deftly maneuvering them around the furniture, and she feels intoxicated from the sheer exhilaration of letting go, letting him control and guide her body. She follows where he leads her with dizzying speed, and she gasps when he picks her up high, spinning her round with him. She slides down his body, chest against chest, until her feet are on the ground again, perfectly in time with the refrain, perfectly aligned to thrust again together to the beat.

Her mind is acquiescent, subsumed by her body that has become a tingling, vibrating mixture of joy and want as he moves his hands over her. The chorus repeats and repeats and she wants it never to end as Sherlock presses against her, holds her close, tightens his grip and makes her move.

In a rush, he places one hand across her shoulder blades and dips her over his knee, her hair like a waterfall reaching to the floor. Her hands fly up around his neck instinctively for support though his hold on her is solid. His other hand is firmly splayed along the small of her back, the cotton of her camisole rucked up, his fingers warm against her skin. On the very last note, he leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers.

They are both panting, and though Sherlock lifts her slowly to standing she still feels lightheaded. His arms slide around her for support and she just stares into his eyes as she tries to catch her breath.

His gaze flicks over her body, her face. “You’re aroused,” he says, and she can tell he’s pleased with himself.

She puffs out half a laugh. “Oh, that’s well-deduced. Was that your plan, then?” She’s never sure with him. Sometimes he tries things just to see if they’ll work, experiments, and then abandons her to fend for herself. Sometimes he has an endgame in mind, and she’s really hoping this is one of those times.

“My plan–” Sherlock begins, and he holds her hand up above her head, giving her one more long, slow spin–-right into John. She’s perpendicular to John’s chest and when she turns her head to meet his eyes, they’re dark and darting between her and Sherlock. She is bookended between them, still holding Sherlock’s hand.

“–is for us all to continue this dance upstairs.”

She turns her head to look up at Sherlock as she leans her body back into John’s embrace, and soon John is sliding one arm around her waist and another around Sherlock’s, pulling them closer into a triangle of arms and gazes.

She feels John’s breath at her nape, watches Sherlock’s eyes as he awaits her answer.

“Oh. That’s good,” she says. “John knows the steps to that one.”

Sherlock’s face breaks into a wide smile, and John nips her earlobe.

“Shut up,” he growls, and she scrunches up her face in a giggle.

Sherlock tugs on her hand and leads her up the stairs, and John follows.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always appreciated. <3  
> (And if you're looking for more to read, I made a [fic index](http://shinysherlock.tumblr.com/post/105509221665) of my stuff by category which I hope is helpful.)


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